You

You, standing there, you are Brigitte Bardot,
The kid at your side has her hands on her hips,
But a kid’s just a kid, what on earth would she know?
She is the past, the mothers, the trips
To the store, and the weekly routine:
Not for that would you stick out your lips,
Cramp up your spine, and try to look mean.
You’d do it for me, for I am your dream,
I gave you a sweet, I’ll make sure you’re seen,
You are Brigitte Bardot, you are part of a theme;
These snaps from the street, they’ll make me quite rich,
And you, you’ll be a star, you’ll gleam
From so many posters, you’ll be called kitsch.
Not *you* standing there, with your grimy hair,
But your image, detached, for the market’s a bitch;
In yourself you are nothing, it’s all in the flair,
Surely your mother was the kind that would say,
That the world of a dream is a world made of air?
Can you live on a hope? Can you live on display?
Do not cry now, or look so afraid,
There is comfort for you: at the end of the day,
When the slums are knocked down, the debts all repaid
And we are both dead, my dear,
No one will know me, but they’ll recognise you.
Thousands will come from far and from near,
Their pens and their cameras, their urge to renew,
Looking back and before, eyes misty or clear,
They will never let you down, your dream
Of fame is their own, just more extreme:
They stand at my side, like an army for war,
Now smile, my girl, have no fear anymore.